


Heal Over

by CynicalRainbows



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 12:16:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20582366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynicalRainbows/pseuds/CynicalRainbows
Summary: A continuation of the scene in which Ann tells Anne about her history with Ainsworth.Basically plotless drabble because a) I have endless time for Anne taking care of her future wife and b) I think that scene's ratio of shouty cross Anne with sympathetic comforting Anne is slightly tipped in cross Anne's favour.





	Heal Over

She had thought he was joking- or at least, joking the way some people did, jokes that she didn’t quite understand but smiled along with anyway because to not would appear discourteous. 

She had smiled along as long as she could- when he took her hand and she was afraid that throwing it off would be rude, when he leant closer and she told herself that it meant nothing, when his hands slid up, up, further than she had ever imagined a man touching her before…. and when she had tried-  _ too late, too late _ \- to edge away noncommitedly, he had simply pressed his weight against her, holding her in place, his forehead against her shoulder as if she were giving him comfort. 

Like that, he couldn't see her face which was good because she hadn’t been able to hold the smile in place any longer after that.

His weight- his strength, his potential to do anything at all to her- was terrifying but oddly, she found herself almost more frightened of trying to fight against him than she was of what he was doing to her-  _ so rough, so rough- ripped open and burning _ : she was holding herself quiet but she knew, she knew that the very sensation of trying to push him away and failing to would tip her into a scream and how was she to explain herself if anyone came in?

The taste of copper- blood where she had bitten her tongue, and bizarrely, the fear that it would make her sick and would he move off her then or would he simply carry on?

She never had to find out, although her stomach roiled each time: every visit an excuse that took them into another room and every visit, his hands upon her,  _ so heavy, so rough _ .

She had believed herself able to bear it, she had believed it didn’t matter so very much, had told herself it was a small thing really  _ (he isn’t hitting you, he isn’t hurting you- at least not with his fists, at least not in a way you can see _ )- she would tell herself that it was bearable…... until the moment that the door would close and he would look at her and smile and slide closer to her, hands gripping her arms, his mouth on hers, the taste of him, the  _ smell _ of him- 

The memories are brighter, louder, relentless- she’s told Anne about it, _ she’s made it real _ , she tells herself- and there’s somehow still a tiny, tiny yet frantic urge to deny it all, to tell Anne that she’s making it up, as if she can wipe the last five minutes from both of their minds and go back to telling herself the same thing she’s been repeating in her own head for more than two years:  _ it’s not like that really, it’s a mistake, it’s misremembered, he didn’t really do those things- he couldn’t, wouldn’t do those things because those are not things that could happen to me- _

But it did. 

It did and he did and the grief of it-  _ for the pretence she’s lost, for the lie she can never tell herself again _ \- rips her open.

Anne holds her as she cries, a rock upon which the waves of her grief break: solid, unmoveable.

Not quite unemotional though- through her distress, Ann can feel a hitch in Anne’s chest. When she can manage speech-  _ it’s tremulous and ridiculous, the ‘I’m alright, really’ that she intends turns into something quite, quite different- _ Anne’s reply is steel- but Anne’s hands smoothing her hair, moving across her arms, her back, are infinitely gentle.

Funny- she has once or twice imagined what it would be to tell someone, during lonely grey afternoons…. Her sister, perhaps. 

(Elizabeth has always had a way of managing things, ever since they were children: she’s not unlike Anne in that respect, except that Elizabeth’s care and consideration seldom extends so far as herself.)

Except she knows it’s all fiction: she could never unburden herself to Elizabeth really.

When Ann imagines telling her, it’s in Elizabeths bedroom at Crow Nest. It’s in the bed that had once been her retreat from all that was dark and fearful-  _ thunder and shouting, the menagerie of monsters that surely lurked on top of the nursery wardrobe, the weary shake of the doctor’s head, a sudden silence from the sickroom, a black edged letter arriving suddenly from Naples- _

She imagines the two of them curled together and keeping their voices low out of habit so as not to summon any parental or governess-shaped authority  _ (even though they were both far too old for a governess, even though the pleasant thought of parental authority had been well and truly put to rest when the first clods of earth hit the coffins. _ )

She can picture the lamplight on the walls, the tumbled quilt, the same pictures on the walls that now hang in the stuffy drawing room in Inverness…. She imagines taking a deep breath and telling her sister everything, just as it happened-

The imagine never goes much further than that- in truth, it often fades after the first brave intake of breath. She certainly can't bring herself to picture her sisters reaction- she finds she is afraid to try. She fears that even in her own mind, Elizabeth's horror will turn on Ann-  _ how could it not, for something so shameful? _ \- and she cannot bear her sister’s judgement too, even in her imagination.

Perhaps it is better that the confession she pictures never can take place- for the bedroom that was once Elizabeth’s is now a blank, impersonal guest room, and besides which, her sister is now a married woman. 

She’ll never visit Ann without her husband, without her brood of children: she has slipped, almost imperceptibly, the mantle of  _ sister _ and taken up one of  _ wife _ . Ann isn’t sure exactly the moment it happened-  _ perhaps when the ring was slipped upon her sisters finger, perhaps earlier _ \- but it has, and she will never be able to hide from the world in her sisters bed again. 

  
  


Inverness is far, and she’s grateful for that, sometimes: how much harder it would be to bear the distance between them if her sister lived only next door?

She could never say what she needs to say in Inverness-  _ the children running in and out, constantly scrambling across their laps, delving into their workbags and pockets in search of hidden sugarplums, Captain Sutherland coming in and interrupting, as he always, always seemed to do on her one brief sojourn north _ .

(She had watched the house in inverness disappear out of the window of the carriage after three weeks of longing for her own bed, her old routine, the unfamiliarity of it all a perpetual ache, and had found herself unable to recall a single proper conversation with her sister that was not interrupted by some urgent household matter calling Elizabeth away from Ann and back to the nursery, the kitchen, the bedroom-)

So yes- she has imagined telling Elizabeth. But that’s a fantasy, she knows- as insubstantial as her dreams of receiving a letter from her brother, of hearing her mother's voice again.

It is curious, she supposes, that for all of her flights of fancy of late (all of them involving Anne) she has never once even contemplated telling  _ her _ . 

She has imagined sharing her life with this woman, imagined travelling with this woman, even growing old with this woman. 

She has imagined every inch of her ( _ imagines that have brought a flush to her check that has nothing to do with fever, an ache to her thighs that is nothing like her usual aches and pains _ ).... She has imagined everything except this- and yet here she is, here they are.

She has never imagined being offered kindness for her sin, but Anne is kind: just as there had been compassion in Anne’s anger, now there is kindness in her silence. 

(Ann has always thought of kindness as something that is inflicted: too many years of unwanted relatives intruding on her drawing room and the barest hint that perhaps she would like to be left in peace met with shocked raised eyebrows and cries of ‘ _ But it’s so kind of them!’. _

She has suffered, silently, for too long under what others have decided is kind- offerings to which her wants and needs are utterly irrelevent- and now she finds herself to be wary of the word.

It conjures up cozening voices and stifling embraces from people she would rather not be touched by. It hints of duty, of debt. It hints of the money- inevitably expected, days or weeks or months later- by letter or by word of mouth:  _ in such need….thought we would ask…..since we’ve always been so kind to you…. _

Secretly, the word makes her queasy she dislikes it so- but it’s also, she realises, the word that applies here.

Anne is kind, but not in a way Ann is used to: it’s quiet, Anne is quiet.

She doesn’t ask any more questions and Ann is grateful that the answers she has gone over and over in her head on countless sleepless nights are unneeded.

_ No, she doesn’t know why she didn’t shout out for help or tell Mrs Ainsworth immediately…. Yes, she knows that it would have been easy to do so...no, he never used violence upon her (only his weight pressing down upon her, only the terrifying strength of his hands upon her, only the crushing fear in her chest when she deflected and cozened and was as polite as she knew how to be when saying no and he kept going….).... Yes, she supposes it does look rather as if she never minded, invited it even, by sheer dint of her silence. _

Anne asks nothing, says nothing- not even when her waistcoat is noticeably damp: Ann pulls back with a mumbled apology only half out and immediately Anne is shushing her, gently repositioning them both and then pulling Ann back into the refuge of her arms.

_ (Another first- no recriminations for causing inconvenience, no pointed look or heavy sigh- just quiet, quiet) _

She cries until she is empty, until the deep well of sadness and guilt that has been pulling her into wakefulness and sapping her of her strength and appetite is dry.

Having to gouge into such raw memories is painful but she feels lighter now too- a deep, hidden, festering hurt inside her has been ripped to the surface and though the pain is fresher now, it’s a clean sort of pain- one that  _ (and she marvels at the thought) _ perhaps one day might even begin to heal enough to leave only the scar of memory.

Eventually, she is left limp in Anne’s arms, eyes and throat raw and swollen. Thankfully, Anne doesn’t immediately oust her: she waits, waits, patient as the earth until Ann herself moves to sit up.

‘How are you feeling?’ 

It’s murmured, as if she is loth to disturb the quiet of the room.

‘I’m- not sure.’ The words sound rough- her head is throbbing and she winces.

‘Are you-’

‘Just- my head….’ 

(She shouldn’t be surprised, her head often aches after giving in to tears but as she is usually alone, there is never normally anyone to notice.)

‘Ah of course. It’ll be dehydration brought about by the exertion and fluid lost via the tear ducts-’ 

She can tell its on the tip of Anne’s tongue to go on, she can see Anne deliberately making herself not immediately list all the scientific side effects of a crying fit and makes a mental note to one day do make Anne a present of letting her tell her all of them since she’s made such an effort now. 

‘I’ll send for some water.’

The water comes quickly and Anne takes it in the doorway herself rather than letting James into the room to put it on the table and pour it. 

(Her ‘ _ Thank you, James _ ’ is curter than Ann’s.)

‘Here.’ She perches quietly on the arm of the chair while Ann sips obediently under her watchful eye: she doesn’t really want it but she  _ is  _ thirsty, she realises- and it does ease her head a bit. She supposes Anne knows what she’s talking about.

Anne smiles when she sets the glass down and she’s pathetically pleased by it. 

‘Good. any better?’

‘A little.’

The room feels colder, the air rougher, now that she’s not wrapped up in Anne’s arms but she doesn’t know how to ask for it: she’s considering how such a request could be phrased when Anne interrupts her.

‘Ann?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I was asking if you felt up to a walk-’

Her first thought is that she’s boring her- taking up her entire afternoon with tears and self pity. Of course it must be dull and she can’t blame Anne for it- she’s suddenly aware of the clock, of how much time has passed. 

_ Selfish, selfish, selfish. _

‘I- ah- I think I might go upstairs.’ She’s dreadful company, she knows it- she shan’t shackle Anne to her any longer than she already has. ‘But please, do go on-’

Anne looks astounded. 

‘Ann, I’m not going to leave you!’

‘But- if you’d like a walk, you mustn’t let me-’

‘Ann!’ She sounds even more shocked. ‘I’m not….bored: I was thinking it might help your head to have some fresh air by taking a turn about the garden….’

‘Oh.’ She feels wrongfooted. ‘Are you….sure?’

‘Of course!’ Suddenly she looks serious. ‘That is if you’d  _ like _ to have some time alone, I completely understand-’

For all that she was prepared moments ago to send Anne off, she feels a sudden pang of anxiety at the thought of being alone in the big empty house: she clutches her hands. 

‘Please- no-’

Anne’s hands are warm as they squeeze hers. ‘Then of course I shall stay… now-’ She gets to her feet. ‘Shall I fetch you anything before you go upstairs?’

‘Well-’ She pauses. The prospect of a walk- having to keep up with a conversation and stride out at a great pace and be amusing and entertaining- had made her shrink away but now…. Anne has made it sound quite inviting…. She thinks of the cool green lawn and the smell of damp earth and the quiet rustle of the wind through the trees- and then of the silence of her bedroom, the incessant ticking of the clock. 

Suddenly, she  _ wants _ to be outside.

‘Could we-’ She feels foolish, ridiculously shy saying it. ‘Could we….walk after all? Please?’

Anne beams. 

‘Of  _ course _ we can.’

It’s cool outside, even cold, and windy with it: it cools her hot cheeks and dries the dampness around her eyes and the noise of it is such that she can almost imagine it’s too loud for her own thoughts to permeate. 

Blowing away the cobwebs as Elizabeth used to say- no, as their Father used to say, except she has to shut that thought down quickly. She doesn’t think she can bear it, right at that moment.

_ Elizabeth, tugging her resolutely out of her bedroom during the endless grey days after the funeral- “The fresh air will do you good, Ann’. She would take a turn about the garden, to please Elizabeth- but returning to the still, silent house after the silent traipse over the damp lawn always made her feel worse rather than better.  _

_ Like the little clockwork people in the nursery clock- out of the door, one quick rotation and then back into the door again with the chiming of the bells: two clockwork sisters making the same trip every day and then shutting themselves back into the house to sit (in silence) and cry (amindst the silence) and sometimes to receive visitors, who would put on their somber faces to match their somber clothes, pass an hour by listening to the clock on the mantlepiece tick and then retreat back to their own warm talking laughing living families. _

They leave through the front door so that Anne can collect her things and are halfway to the path that will take them around the side of the house, past the rhododendrons and into the garden when ann suddenly feels that she cannot bear to even set foot in it again, even with Anne by her side.

Anne seems to sense her hesitation and slows her step to match Ann’s.

‘Are you alright? Do you want to go back to the house?’

‘No- that is-’ She casts a look over her shoulder to the drive, to the road beyond it.

Anne follows her gaze. ‘Would you like to go further afield perhaps?’

It’s a walk, it’s just a walk- but stepping over the threshold of Crow Nest on the arm of Anne Walker feels sends fizzles of warmth through her. 

It feels- ridiculously, foolishly- like  _ escape _ \- as if she’s leaving the events of the past hour- the shouting and recriminations, the crushing guilt and the shame and fear and hurt- back in the drawing room.

Lighter, she steps out into the brave new world with Anne Lister by her side.


End file.
